Among the most outrageous of our contemporary American outlaws, and
among the funniest, is Al Goldstein, the co-founder and lightning rod
for the infamous, gleefully tasteless semi-underground sex tabloid Screw,
which he describes as "the most notorious, uproarious, and
influential pornographic newspaper in the world". Through his
publication (and through his cable television show "Midnight
Blue") Goldstein chronicled any sort of sexual story, and
maintained a forum for his famous editorials which were the prose
equivalent of a raised middle finger to politicians, religious leaders,
feminists, and to any lawyer, restaurateur, movie producer, or airline
who happened to irritate him. ("Irritate him"? Thatís not
the phrase Goldstein would use.) He became a multimillionaire, and a
celebrity, and it was a wild ride through the 34 years of publishing his
magazine. He descended, however, back to rags from riches as the
lawsuits and divorces took their toll. He has now written (with Josh
Alan Friedman) the autobiography I, Goldstein: My Screwed Life
(Thunderís Mouth Press), a foul-mouthed, absurd, ribald, and
thoroughly entertaining account of an influential life that may truly be
called unique.

Here is the dedication at the front of the book: "To No
One". Goldstein tells us right off the bat, "What motivates me
is not love, but hatred. Without my many enemies, I would not be able to
get up in the morning... I got up every morning to face my enemies and I
loved it." He does not spare himself from his own scorn, referring
to his younger self as a "bed-wetting stutterer from Brooklyn"
and constantly referring to his own cupidity in, if they had come from
anyone else, anti-Semitic terms. Surely his aggressively hilarious style
of writing has been a way of making up for his own self-loathing and
doubt. He had trouble with girls when he was growing up: "My
faÁade of amorality and detached sex has always been a cover for being
afraid of being hurt. So what else is new. Screw was such an
antiromantic publication as compensation for that." His father was
a photojournalist who had shown some bravery in World War II, but was so
timid that he addressed elevator operators as "sir". Goldstein
as a kid enjoyed going out on his fatherís shoots, and became a
photographer himself. His mother "... thought I was God and could
do no wrong," and told him later that she had been having an affair
with the diet doctor who treated the adolescent Goldstein because
Goldsteinís father was so inadequate. Goldstein muses, "Years
later I accepted that even my mother was entitled to pleasure. I turned
feminist in order to process this," a declaration that will
surprise most feminists. (Among the many names Goldstein drops
throughout the book is that of Gloria Steinem: "I won the right to
take Gloria Steinem out to dinner once at an auction. She
reneged.")

He joined the army, where he was trained as a photographer in the
Signal Corps. "A year in the army did little to toughen me up. I
was a whining Jew faggot." After an honorable discharge in 1956, he
went on the GI Bill to an accounting college where he was "the
schoolís resident beatnik." He never got his degree partially
because he kept falling asleep in class, due to his nighttime work for
the Daily Mirror. He drove the nocturnal radio car for none other
than Walter Winchell, whom Goldstein credits with inventing the gossip
column. "He broke the taboo against exposing the private lives of
public figures, permanently altering the shape of journalism." In
1960 Goldstein won $1,000 in a contest for a story he wrote for a menís
magazine, but he continued in photography. His agency sent him to Cuba
where he took enough photos to alarm the militia, and when he was
obnoxious upon questioning, he was thrown into jail. When he got back,
he was on the television show Who Do You Trust?, telling Johnny
Carson about Cuban jails (but he mentions that after Screw, he
never got invited to Carsonís Tonight Show). He was the
photographer for Jackie Kennedyís Goodwill Tour to Pakistan in 1962,
and ten years later Screw would print its hottest-selling issue
ever featuring telephoto pictures of Jackie sunbathing in the buff. He
drove a taxi, sold life insurance, and was a carnie barker. He worked as
an industrial spy against workers at the Bendix Corporation, and is
ashamed of it. He wrote an exposť on his spying for a free press paper
in New York, and there met Jim Buckley, an editor and typesetter, a
conservative who came from an upstanding Catholic background and never
had any sexual dalliances except with his wife, but nonetheless went on
to co-found Screw.

Screwís first issue came out in 1968, and by the time of
Goldsteinís first arrest, it was outselling Time and Playboy
on Manhattan newsstands. The first arrest came because of a pedophilic
personal ad, for which Goldstein apologizes; he hadnít screened the ad
himself, and he has nothing good to say about pedophiles. He rejoices
that the district attorney who prosecuted him fell victim (as have so
many others) to "The Goldstein Curse", later spending three
years in prison for tax fraud. The cops grew to be familiar
near-friends. Goldstein remembers being driven in handcuffs to the
Thirteenth Precinct where he was introduced to the desk captain because
of an obscenity charge. When the captain is informed that before him was
the publisher of Screw, the response is, "No kiddiní. Glad
to meetcha," followed by handshakes all around. "If the City
had left me alone and paid no attention," Goldstein admits, "I
probably would have gotten bored and quit the magazine." The
magazine "gave the worldís oldest profession an advertising
medium" and became "the ConsumerReports of
sex." Goldstein wrote reviews of porn movies. He cut-and-pasted
pictures of the famous onto naked bodies for satirical effect.
Pornographers usually keep a low profile, but he basked in his notoriety
and dared anyone to make a First Amendment issue of it. He enjoyed the
thrill of being arrested and disturbing the status quo of the state.
"Acceptance of Screw would be the kiss of death."

He had a good time, and there are plenty of funny stories here. When
the Polish Pope visited New York, Screw reported that he was
making a tour of public bathrooms. The Polish pressmen who printed the
magazine walked out, but "Iím prepared for printer walkouts at
all times, and the plant brings in an alternate crew of Puerto Ricans.
Or Italians or Slavs or whichever ethnic group is not too offended to
handle that weekís subject matter." He depicted Poppiní Fresh
the Pillsbury Doughboy shtupping a dough girl (she had a yeast
infection, get it?), and Pillsbury hit him with a $50 million lawsuit,
which was eventually dropped, permitting forever the use of trademarks
modified for satirical purposes. At the time, the Japanese edition of Screw
was just starting up, and its editors, not knowing Pillsbury, assumed
that the depicted Doughboy was Screwís mascot, so they put it
on every subsequent cover of the Japanese version. Goldstein had a
unique workforce, including a cameraman who, "... for years the
picture of blue-collar propriety, suddenly started sporting a dress to
work each day." He got the first interview of Linda Lovelace after
the debut of Deep Throat, and received her oral attentions, an
experience which he describes as sad and pleasureless, but he had a
better time getting a bet paid back by porn star Seka. He went to lunch
with "Happy Hooker" Xaviera Hollander, and they "... are
two middle-aged Jews who discuss and devour pastrami, gefilte fish,
chopped liver, and a bowl of sour pickles. Neither of us utter so much
as a syllable of sex the whole hour. We could care less when there is
food on the table." Goldstein writes rather lovingly about
pastrami, and with nostalgia about the great restaurants that are no
longer in existence. A head chef at Katzís, which Goldstein says has
the best pastrami in the country, says, "People donít realize
what a wonderful man Al is. For every Pat Robertson and schmuck out
there, you need an Al Goldstein to balance things out."

Goldsteinís fall was precipitous, landing him in homeless shelters
and at the prison at Rikerís Island, which sounds straight out of the
third world. "Iíve burned bridges. I have regrets," he says,
and chief among these is losing contact with his son, who having been
put through Harvard Law School with the aid of the pornographerís
millions, has nothing now to do with his father. Goldstein mentions,
with little trace of bitterness, one celebrity or pal after another that
severed all connection with him once the money was gone. He also
mentions with gratitude the friends who gave him money, or the
restaurateurs who gave him free meals ("But I had to go early to
make the homeless shelter by eight to sign for my bed"), or
magician Penn Jillette who pays the rent for his Staten Island
apartment. He is unrepentant, but he is disgusted by porn films of
today, which he says are meaningless, with no tension, surprise, or
human characterization. "Is this to be my legacy?" he asks,
"I never dreamed Iíd ever say such a thing, but is there no
taste?" He had, however, previously written, "Each weekly
issue of Screw is one more strike against the world. If I ever
lose it all, Iíll merely shrug, amazed to have even gotten so
far." He might think of his book as yet another such strike. Crude,
buoyant, angry, and funny, it is possibly as authentic as any
autobiography can be.